


He touches Me

by oh_johnny



Category: The Beatles
Genre: M/M, Schmoop
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-26
Updated: 2015-12-26
Packaged: 2018-05-09 13:18:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 449
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5541452
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oh_johnny/pseuds/oh_johnny
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>From John's p.o.v. The photo referenced can be viewed here: <br/>http://static.tumblr.com/831ba5a484ec9bc35da0f315557d8508/ewq9wzd/Ggunxh3bu/tumblr_static_di8vhob409c8g8wk8go8ow8wg.jpg</p>
            </blockquote>





	He touches Me

**Author's Note:**

> This is a repost of an old fic from the LJ Beatlesslash comm

He moves past me, his hand brushing mine accidentally (or not) and I’m removed from this place, this time. His touch shakes me, breaks my focus, pulls me into another world, a world peopled by only two.

The first time he touched me, other than the arm across the shoulder slap on the back camaraderie of youth, he brushed his hand against my cheek, a gentle reminder that he cared. He stopped me cold in my misery, shone a light, a beacon that called me to him. Then I saw the look in his eyes, the sorrow there, and damned him for daring to come so close.

But I felt that touch on my skin for days.

The next time he pulled me into a hug, ignoring my protest, my unyielding body. He held me in his arms, whispered that I could trust him always, stood silent when I pushed him away and walked out.

He kept trying, kept taking opportunities to let me know that he saw past my walls, saw through me, and didn’t care.

I hated it.

Then we took that picture. My chest against his back, his hair tickling my throat, my hands reaching over him and it’s all I can do not to caress, to pull him back to me, to embrace. Picture taken he turns to me, smiles, knows. He says later that he could feel my heart hammering against him, could see my hands shake.

Nobody knows me. Nobody sees through me. Nobody.

Except him.

And now I’ve given all to him. He is my equal. My partner. In all ways that matter. It frightens me. It makes me vulnerable.

I hate it.

I love him.

And now _we_ touch, our hands brush past each other leaving electricity in their wake. He runs a finger up my spine and the shiver rocks me. The heat of those roughened fingers, so strong, so very talented. 

Some days it’s fucking. Some days it’s sweet. Always it’s love.

That knot in his shoulders, the tension there even when he sleeps, that spot below his ribcage that makes him laugh, the inside of his wrist and the moan when the touch is just right.

His mouth. I could write sonnets to his lips, epic love poems to his tongue. The taste of him. Scotch and tea and cigarettes.

I have touched every inch of him and he of me. You’d think there’d be nothing left to learn, that we’d grow complacent. 

But.

Sometimes.

His touch goes to the core of me and lays my soul bare, flays every nerve ending, overwhelms my senses, brings me to tears.

I cry in the night.

Because he touches me.


End file.
